


That Cold Affliction

by orphan_account



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy
Genre: Ambiguous Relationships, Angst and Feels, Celibacy, Desire, Emotionally Repressed, Feels, First Kiss, Forbidden Love, Force Bond (Star Wars), Gentleness, Jedi Code (Star Wars), Kissing in the Rain, M/M, Master & Padawan Relationship(s), Mutual Pining, Prompt Fic, Rain, Sexual Tension, Tea
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-31
Updated: 2020-05-31
Packaged: 2021-03-02 21:21:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,853
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24233503
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Obi-Wan tries to surprise his Master on a mission with few comforts by making Qui-Gon's favorite tea.Or trying to, at least. As it turns out, tea is a . . . complicated affair.(A little bit like love.)Or: "Fall down into sleep,Into a fevered dream,Where I barely know what's going on--Except I know that I want you,And I know that I need you,And I tell you I love you again and again and again and again.Hey-ya, hey-ya,I'll kiss your eyes and wash your skin.Hey-ya, hey-ya,Forget myself and let you in.Hey-ya, hey-ya,Because all I want is that cold affliction:Your affection."
Relationships: Qui-Gon Jinn/Obi-Wan Kenobi
Comments: 14
Kudos: 30
Collections: Master Apprentice Archive





	That Cold Affliction

**Author's Note:**

  * For [markwatnae](https://archiveofourown.org/users/markwatnae/gifts).



> In gratitude for [Markwatnae](https://archiveofourown.org/users/markwatnae/works)'s kindly comments on the [_Left In Want Of Mercy_](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22863832/chapters/54645553), I offered to write a little giftie-fic. The prompt I received was:
>
>> "Honestly, I'm a sucker for simple, super sweet and mushy QuiObi. Nothing too fancy; slice-of-life, being in love, soft and quiet."
> 
> So here we are! I hope you enjoy this, friend--and I'm so sorry it took me a couple months. :( I'd actually intended for this to just be fluffy, and then it ended up all bittersweet . . . alas.
> 
> Somewhat inspired by my years spent working in a coffeeshop; like coffee, there are simple ways of making tea, if tea is all you want--and complicated ways, if you're a connoisseur.
> 
> The title and "Or" come from Amber Run's ["Affection"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=D7tE1i_TDio).
> 
> Anyway, comments are ever and always welcome! Thank you so much for reading, and I do hope you enjoy! <3

The Healers at the Temple had entrusted them to bring back a rare flower, renowned for its ability to soothe the most troubled of minds, to bring some measure of peace to Jedi Knights who experienced such terrible things in their service of the Light that they are irrevocably shattered.

Such beings are stripped of their lightsabers, the crystals lovingly placed in the pockets of the soft robes they were given—soft robes and no belts and quiet-soled boots—things needed if one is never to leave the Temple again. There are certain wounds not even the Light can heal. But for whatever years remain to them, such Knights are treated with compassion, are cared for and loved, despite the difficulties and the dangers—the Force can do terrible things to a mind, and oh, the Darkness feeds on such minds as theirs have become—the Darkness threatens to devour them.

But if Obi-Wan and Qui-Gon succeed, Knights such as those might be given some measure of neurochemical peace. Perhaps spending the last of their lives in such artificial bliss is a small, small act of mercy.

* * *

They’d stepped from the shuttle and been greeted by spindling, pale-skinned beings with polished-bright eyes; cordial but secretive, they promptly informed the Master and Padawan that the flowers they sought would not bloom until the monsoon broke—in another three weeks. Within the course of a day they would wither and die.

Short enough time that it would be foolish—and wasteful—to retrace their route to Coruscant, only to return in the hopes of such a brief chance.

And so Qui-Gon, unperturbed by the pouring rain, had bartered for field rations. With little explanation—as seemed his custom on oh-so-many-worlds—he led Obi-Wan reluctantly into the wilderness, right to the center of the mud-thick fields where the flowering plants desperately stole whatever sunlight they could manage through faint breakings in the clouds, slight and fleeting. They were the only growing-green things; everything else was brown or black or grey or blue-mottled mould.

* * *

Dawn breaks in diluted-grey shades, the sun a mere shadow-shaded-white sluggishly climbing up from the marshlands to the west, weary and waterlogged as the planet below. The cold and damp have settled somewhere deep in Obi-Wan’s bones.

Slowly he draws a breath, attempting to find some measure of peace with the sheer number of spores he’s sure he’s inhaling. Qui-Gon’s still asleep; he touches on the bond—a finger run along the strings of an instrument, making no sound—but the simple presence of his Master is soothing nonetheless.

Silent as shadow he finds his feet, despairing at the splatter-soaked mud and the stems of brown-stalked grasses clinging to his tunic and robe, his trousers, his boots. The air is thick, but to his surprise there is no rain. It stopped sometime during the afternoon, and it had been a blessing to sleep, at last, without his face wrapped up in hood and cowl.

And for the first time in two weeks, ah, they’d slept to the fitful cracking laughter of a fire—small and coy, but oh-so-briefly warmth and gleaming light. Obi-Wan had fallen asleep watching the playful dance of flames and shadows on his Master’s face: the glittering slivers of his eyes, the flesh of his body cast to the folds and wrinkles of cloth, the long hair grown stringy and tangled, the unkempt stubble grown wildwood at his jaw.

Fatigue whispered over him, the fire laughed and spat; the thrum of the Force was slow and deep and ancient—swelling, receding. Obi-Wan’s heartbeat had taken the rhythm, the play of blood in his veins, and as he’d looked upon his Master, ah, another warmth entirely had settled and stiffened and he’d wanted nothing more than to be closer to Qui-Gon in the light.

But for the Light—

Now the fire’s nothing but a few smoldering embers, fitful, needing; he turns the branches, stirring the ashes, drawing on the last of their stockpiled kindling. Damp, smoke-belching wood—but dry enough to catch. Gingerly he blows on the embers, coaxing them back into life.

They’d sheltered in the lee of a shoulder-high stone; as he stands the wind howls and cuts through his robe. He fishes out the durasteel cups from their packs; they’re ice at his fingertips; they burn and snap as if to chastise him for the sleep-stoked desire, the secret, the shame.

With no fear of leaving the fire—what is there to burn?—he makes his way with mud-squelching steps towards the lonely tickle of the stream nearby. It’s one of the few they’ve found that runs clear.

He kneels to wash his face, already cold and finding the water far colder still. It shakes him awake, shivering, gasping for breath and tilting his head up towards the sky, to the east, hoping for a faint glance of that fleeting sun. When the monsoon breaks—

Hastily he fills the cups and turns back to the camp; he can feel Qui-Gon through the bond, slipping languidly to wakefulness, unable to hide (though Obi-Wan suspects his Master doesn’t know) the aches of a body growing old, a body protesting this chilled and waterlogged world, the nights spent curled up on little more than moss-slimed stones.

Ah, but in one of the pouches in his pack, carefully hidden away, Obi-Wan has a surprise.

Or so he hopes.

He crouches at the fireside, nestling the durasteel cups amidst the flames with a glancing-quick flick of his hand—

And the low-slung clouds sigh and the Force chuckles at his well-intended plans and he can feel the downpour a hairsbreadth before it happens. The fire hisses with futile resignation, dying in the cold-sluicing torrent that soaks Obi-Wan to the bone in the blink of an eye.

* * *

The deluge stirs Qui-Gon at last from the final vestiges of sleep; he shakes the water from his eyes and offers Obi-Wan a quiet smile. He knows well enough that his Padawan has been utterly miserable; unspoken is the asking—why not stay in the planet’s main settlement? With roofs and dry beds and warm food? (Not _better_ food, he’ll grant—the fare on this world is made of what’s on hand—waterplants and tough, greenless grass and dour-eyed, mottle-shelled insects . . . ) But, yes, there’d have been some comfort.

But the young man’s said no word, asked nothing, borne all with quiet deference.

Even now, drenched and crouched at the fireside—or what once-had-been. Last night—the heat, the light dancing from the stone—had spoiled them. Now there is no warmth, no light, unless they find both within the Force.

A shiver wracks him and he studies his Padawan more closely, tilting his head, watching as rivulets of water drip from the sodden braid half-plastered there against his cheek.

The idle impulse to kiss the raindrops from Obi-Wan’s nose, his lips, shifts slowly into focus, refusing to dislodge itself from Qui-Gon’s mind. The Master shakes his head again, as if to clear it from foolishness as much as the droplets stinging at his eyes.

Obi-Wan looks up, handing him a durasteel cup of cold water without saying a word.

* * *

The monsoon breaks at last: within the week a night, and then another, pass without rain—and then half a day—and at last the clouds give way, scudding past that diluted sun, pouring whatever it has in offering to the planet below. Obi-Wan can sense the sheer relief through the Force—of the plants and the fauna, of the beings in the distant settlements. Festive balls of exploding lights sprinkle the horizon. He lays on his back, stripped to the waist, his tunic and robe spread out beside him; beneath him is a rock, broad and rough, finally dry. He’s shucked off his boots, and a soft breeze plays with his toes.

He stares up at the stars, at the slow march of a single slivered moon, the edges of his sight crinkling occasionally with fireworks, the reports rolling across the distance in some vague echoing of thunder. Somewhere in the field is Qui-Gon, likely on a rock much the same: half-bare and shaking with the cold but welcoming, at last, the clear, clear skies.

But for just a moment, lost in the darkness, he can feign being alone. Somehow it seems preferable to the knowledge of his Master’s nearness, his nakedness (or nearly so, and well enough) . . .

Through the bond comes a flicker, a query—half-formed and wordless—rising and dashed on the ebbing current of the Force, so that it comes to him in splintered pieces. Or perhaps it began so. Perhaps even Qui-Gon doesn’t know now what to say, but only that he must say it—say anything at all.

* * *

Carefully Obi-Wan sifts through his pack, full of packets of pressed flowers; aboard the shuttle they’ll be glitter-bright in stasis fields for the journey back to Coruscant. He isn’t sure what he expected, but they’re beautiful—streaked red and yellow: little flames burst from stems so weary of the rain, of stealing the meager sun for something so fleeting.

There, at the bottom, untouched: a handful of sachets, bound with neat knots worried by a nimble hand. He’s still surprised that he got them: the kitchen staff had humored him with soft-edged smiles. True, he and Bant were known for sneaking in for leftover pastries or secret snacks—but there’d been something intangible, just beyond his grasp, reflected in their eyes. Some of them, of course, were younglings or Padawans on rotation through Temple service—but some were beings who’d known a larger world, who’d known the galaxy, as flesh and blood.

He picks up a sachet and sniffs it and wonders if they . . . knew.

Is it so obvious?

Again he inhales, the scent of the herbs pungent and pure: spice and tranquility, substance and subtlety. Something catches in his mind, and _this_ , he realizes—this smell—is his Master’s. Clinging to his robe, his tunic, his—

White-edged dawn whispers at the floorboards of the meager dwelling they’ve been given in which to pass the night. Today they’ll ease the shuttle to the stars and streak the stars to lightspeed. Obi-Wan wants to go back—to his own sleep-couch, which is far from luxurious but soft and familiar. Back to the sonic shower and the sunlight bouncing from the polished floors, flooding transparisteel windows. But still—but still.

Some part of him will miss this place.

Qui-Gon sleeps in a puddle of that feeble light, swaddled in his robe. Obi-Wan spares a glance as he passes on silent-soled feet: there’s a furrow between his Master’s brows, something restive in the way he breathes.

The heating apparatus is primitive—little more than a fuel line and a switch to strike a spark, licking blue flames spattering beneath a thin, smooth stone. Obi-Wan fills their durasteel cups from the unwilling, rusted tap, setting them atop the stone, settling himself to wait.

* * *

He’s tasted bitter tea before, but _this_ —

Obi-Wan sets his cup aside, turning hastily towards Qui-Gon, all the pride and joy he’d felt at such a silly, paltry offering vanished in an instant, caught in the acrid tealeaves clinging to his tongue. “Master—”

But Qui-Gon, cup cradled in the palm of one hand, unperturbed by the scalding durasteel or steam, merely appraises him quietly over the rim, drinking the tea in a single draught. He is silent for a moment, considering the durasteel cup with great intent—the remnant leaves, the tattered-gossamer sachet, torn asunder by the heat—before catching his Padawan in the depths of an indigo gaze.

“You brought ydril tea?”

And—inexplicably—Qui-Gon’s lips curve into a small, incredulous smile.

* * *

He can see that a thousand apologies are tangled at Obi-Wan’s tongue, snared and rendered mute in the bitterness of the tealeaves. It’s not for the foiled effort that he smiles—or the tea, really. It doesn’t matter if his Padawan brings him cups of cold water, their fire snuffed in a huff of smoke and ash-turned-sludge. Or if his offering is this—is scalded tea, all the delicacy lost. Or even if the tea is perfect.

The superficiality of all these things, the wildness, _impermanence_ —

Impulsively he sets his cup aside and reaches out—reaches with strong, calloused-rough hands—cradling Obi-Wan’s own with a reckless, tender fervor.

The impermanence is all they have.

His Padawan is shaking quietly, but those sky-blue eyes are steady and still and at once wiser than Qui-Gon knows he’ll ever be and oh, so terribly—

Not young. Not untried, not callow. But—

Qui-Gon bows his head. He doesn’t know.

He reaches for the Force, for the Light, and finds it as still waters: neither brightly reflecting a thousand splendid suns nor dark as the abysmal depths. Clear. And—

_Help me. I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what to say._

—silent.

He glances up again, feels Obi-Wan’s fingers begin to trace his own, ah, the knuckles and veins, the trembling muscles and sinews strung tight. As if the young man knows his body better than he does, himself.

So it’s seemed for a long time now, between the two of them.

At last he clears his throat. “You brought ydril tea from Coruscant—all this way—and all this time. For me.”

“Yes.”

And from the word, oh, its surety, Qui-Gon knows now that Obi-Wan has come, in such a briefly-coursed moment, to understand. Such a brief glimmer passed between them, the hidden-subconscious strength of the bond: those sacred, terrifying complexities that well enough a Jedi Knight should often plumb. What of a man, if he does not know himself—even those most desperate hopes?

That it isn’t about the tea, really, has been one such offering, drifted to the surface as flotsam, carried away on the waters that had appeared oh-so-deceptively still and clear and silent.

They are knee-to-knee, cross-legged, hands folded and pressed together. They both find themselves shaking now because of all that these covert joys and miseries have brought them. Because here--

Here the locals care not a wit for their presence, in antipathy or empathy: they are generous and not unkind but neither are they ones to pry or—

Here they could—

Blood pounds as an ocean in Qui-Gon’s ears, gathered somewhere close behind closed eyes. He is aware of his heart racing, frantic-staccated rhythm kept. He should settle himself, should mediate, should give all these wandering wishes and hopes that can never be (and there, that’s it, the wisdom in Obi-Wan’s gaze—for Obi-Wan _knows_ ) their due consideration, their inevitable dismissal into the Force—for a Jedi cannot know love, cannot know passion, cannot—

Obi-Wan’s breath is warm and harsh and quick against his cheek; it takes a moment to register the sensation flickering back along his nerves: feather-softness, chapped-sweet.

His Padawan delicately kisses his eyelids, nose ruffling his brows, before wordsongs fill his ears, oh, leaving him full and aching and—

“By the fireside, I wanted nothing more than to be close to you.”

Qui-Gon feels the Obi-Wan’s hands clench spasmodically against his own, dropping, slipping, splayed against his Master’s thighs. _To feel_ , goes the rest of it, unsung, impossible to fix into words. _To hold. Be held._

He can sense Obi-Wan’s own body, the radiated _heat_ of it, the stiffened lilt that curves and reaches for him, constrained by cloth and Code and vows.

_To love._

* * *

“I wanted to kiss every drop of rain running down your face.”

The words are low, half-hummed, slipped into his ear. For him. _For him._ He has never known his Master to speak to anyone like this. _I want you. I need you. I love you._

The bristle-brush beard pricks at his skin before Qui-Gon’s lips soothe the sting: a trail traced down his nose and then—

His gasped “ _Yes_ —” finds echo in Qui-Gon’s _“Oh—”_ and he wants the kiss to swallow him, wants to wrap his Master’s body in his arms, wants to feel nothing but this moment, wants to drown in it, would spend a life here on this rain-soaked world—if only for this.

But no.

But never.

True enough pleasure beckons and half-blinds him; true enough to go without will leave him in primordial agony: he’ll not defile himself with his hand to find some paltry, pale-shadowed measure of animalistic release.

But truer still is the counterweight, hanging at his hip: durasteel alloy and components and a laughing blue crystal of the living Force, singing to him all the way from the scoured stones of Ilum.

Truer still the mantle, the simple brown cloth of his robe, that did so little to shield him from the rain.

It means far more than that.

And for as deeply as he drinks from the brushing of their lips, as desperately as he grants himself the one luxury, the memory, of tangling his hands up in his Master’s hair—but oh, to know of Qui-Gon’s need and his and how it all will be unmet—that this is stolen time, a stolen act, a blasphemy—

Oh, the kiss is _bitter_.


End file.
